Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
by Blithering Idiot
Summary: Written in story form. Deception, insanity, murder, treachery and ghosts make for a wild and whirling ride through the corrupted court of Denmark, where nothing is ever what it seems...
1. Chapter 1

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**ACT ONE**

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**Scene 1**: _The Ghost Walks_

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Fransisco shifted uneasily. The dark tower always seemed to him hostile and unwelcoming; being posted sentry there was most undesirable. Though perhaps the many shadows that seemed to jump out unexpectedly at him were just products of his imagination; his nerves, after all, were already stretched tight. Not that a king's sentry should have anything but iron nerves. But he'd not been trained for anything like this – see what he'd had to deal with! Twice in the last week alone. Really, being confronted by things so unnatural, so intangible, was enough to set any man on edge. He was not afraid of anything he could strike with a sword, but _ghosts,_ now...they were another matter. At least his time was nearly up for tonight. If that blasted newcomer would show up; he longed desperately for bed.

What was that? Fransisco stiffened. The spirit, returning? No; a definite footstep. He hoped it was the newcomer at last. What was his name? Barnardo, that was it. Laying his hand upon his sword hilt, Fransisco stepped swiftly forward.

A creeping shadow froze upon seeing him.

"Who's there?" stammered the shadow nervously.

'_Who's there'_, thought Fransisco, irritably. What cheek! He answered sharply, making sure that Barnardo, if it were he, could hear his annoyance. "Nay, answer _me_. Stand and unfold yourself."

The shadow hesitated, then climbed the last few steps. As he emerged from the darkness of the spiral staircase, the moonlight threw his features into sharp relief. Quietly, the man spoke the password.

"_Long live the King_."

"Barnardo?" checked Fransisco.

"He," Barnardo confirmed.

"You come most carefully upon your hour," said Fransisco reprovingly. Though he supposed Barnardo was not exactly _late_, he'd certainly arrived at the last possible minute. As he spoke, a great bell began to chime.

"'Tis now struck twelve," said Barnardo defensively. "Get thee to bed, Fransisco."

That was certainly a most welcome thought! Fransisco smiled, and made an effort to be friendlier. "For this relief much thanks," he said. "'Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart."

Barnardo looked worried. "Have you had quiet guard?"

Fransisco knew Barnardo was enquiring about the strange spirit they had both seen.

"Not a mouse stirring," Francisco told the younger guard, who looked anxious. Evidently he was disappointed that the Ghost had not yet come and gone...perhaps it was just biding its time.

"Well...goodnight," said Barnardo, with a rather unsuccessful attempt at a brave smile. Fransisco raised his hand in a sign of farewell, and began to make his way down the stairs. Then Barnardo called after him. "If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, tell them make haste!"

Fransisco grinned. Barnardo wanted back-up in case the ghost arrived! Well, who could blame him...

The sound of footsteps – Horatio's and Marcellus'? – reached Fransisco's ears, and he shouted over his shoulder to Barnardo. "I think I hear them."

He leaned over the staircase rail. "Stand ho, who is there?" he cried.

Horatio's voice answered him calmly. "Friends to this ground."

"And liegemen to the Dane!" added another voice, Marcellus'.

Fransisco waved them upward with a smile, then took a few more steps down the stairs, towards bed, and warmth, and oh, most desirable dreamless sleep...

"Give you goodnight," he said to Horatio and Marcellus as they passed.

"Farewell, honest soldiers; who has relieved you?" Marcellus seemed to be assuming that both Barnardo and he were leaving.

"Barnardo has my place," Fransisco informed them shortly. Would he never get to bed? "Give you goodnight."

He hurried down the stairs before any other enquiry could be made of him, and was thankful to escape.

Marcellus watched Francisco's sturdy frame disappear with a smothered laugh; the old solider never had been keen on night-watching. "Hello, Barnardo," he greeted the young soldier as he reached him.

Barnardo shook his hand politely, then squinted over Marcellus' shoulder. "Say, what, is Horatio there?" the young soldier inquired.

Horatio climbed the last few steps and gave Barnardo a friendly smile. "A piece of him," he joked.

"Welcome, Horatio," said Barnardo, returning the smile.

Horatio was looking around them. "Has this thing appeared again tonight?"

Barnardo looked surprised. "I have seen nothing," he said slowly, giving Marcellus an enquiring glance.

"Horatio says it's only our imagination – he won't believe in this dreaded Ghost we have seen, twice seen!" Marcellus informed the younger soldier, confirming with a small nod that he had indeed told Horatio of the Ghost. "Therefore I have entreated him along with us to watch the minutes of this night. If the apparition should come again, he may confirm what we have seen, and speak to it."

"Tush, tush," said Horatio with an amused smile. "It will not appear!"

Marcellus rolled his eyes, and Barnardo had to smother a laugh. "Sit down awhile," he told Horatio. "And let us once again attack your incredulous ears with the tale of what we have _both_ – two nights! – seen."

"Well, sit we down," said Horatio tolerantly. "And let us hear Barnardo speak of this."

They settled themselves more or less comfortably on the cold stone floor, then Barnardo began.

"Last night," he said, assuming his best story-telling manner, "when that star you can see over there had made its course to that part of the heavens where it now burns, the bell chimed one, and Marcellus and myself –"

But just then, Marcellus jumped up so suddenly that Barnardo dropped his sword. "Peace, break thee off," Marcellus hissed at him urgently. "Look – it comes again!"

A deathly cold had settled upon them, and Barnardo turned in slow dread towards what he knew he would see.

The Ghost, its grey form slightly blurred, was gliding sorrowfully towards them. Its face was etched with mournful pain and something much akin to grief, if ghosts indeed can grieve. The amazed Horatio spoke not a word, but gazed at the Ghost with troubled eyes.

"The same figure like the king that's dead..." whispered Barnardo in awe.

There was no doubt it was like the old, gracious King Hamlet, though none had seen him in life with such an agonised, angry expression etched in every line of his noble face.

Marcellus tore his eyes away from the spirit long enough to whisper urgently to Horatio: "You're a scholar – speak to it, Horatio."

But Horatio seemed as yet incapable of movement, let alone speech.

"He looks like the King, does he not? Look at it, Horatio," said Barnardo, rather unnecessarily.

Horatio found his voice. "Most like," he said croakily. "It harrows me with fear and wonder."

"It would be spoke to," hinted Barnardo.

"Speak to it, Horatio," Marcellus repeated. Throwing a slightly amused glance at his companions, Horatio nodded. The faint smile in his brown eyes faded, however, as he approached the sad grey form of the ghost. It was really terribly cold, thought Horatio, shivering.

"What are you that comes at this time of night in that fair and warlike form in which the buried King of Denmark did sometimes march?" he asked softly of the Ghost. But the grey spirit merely gazed down silently at him. "By heaven," Horatio added, his voice growing stronger, "I charge thee speak."

The Ghost retreated, its colourless eyes fixed on Horatio.

"It is offended..." Marcellus looked at Horatio reprovingly.

The Ghost retreated a little more. "See, it stalks away," commented Barnardo, unable to hide a note of relief.

Horatio ran a few steps after the Ghost's fading figure. "Stay!" he cried. "Speak, speak, I charge thee speak!"

But the ghost was no more to be seen.

"'Tis gone and will not answer," said Marcellus, as Horatio stood, brightly illuminated in the moonlight, staring after the Ghost. Then he turned slowly back to his friends, his eyes slightly wild.

"How now, Horatio, you tremble and look pale," Barnardo told him, reaching for Horatio's hand and pulling him away. But the young soldier could not hide a note of satisfaction from his voice. "Is this not something more than fantasy?" he asked the white-faced scholar. "What think you on't?"

Horatio did not speak for a while, and when he did, it was in hushed tones.

"Before my God," he said slowly. "I might not believe this without the confirmation of my own eyes..."

"Is it not like the King?" said Marcellus, eager for confirmation.

"As like as you are to yourself," nodded Horatio. "Such was the very armour he had on when he fought the King of Norway...and you noted his frown? He frowned just like that, once, when he smote the sledded Polacks on the ice...'tis strange..." he trailed off.

"Twice before, just at this midnight hour, he has gone by our watch," said Marcellus.

Horatio nodded slowly. "I think ... I do not know ... but I think this bodes some strange eruption to the state of Denmark; some political revolt or disturbance."

Marcellus turned to him with searching eyes. "You know why this spirit nightly walks the land?"

"I have a theory, no more," said Horatio. "I've heard rumours, which would make sense of it. You see, the late King Hamlet was once engaged in combat with King Fortinbras of Norway – he slew Fortinbras, and took his lands. Not the land of Norway itself, but its estates, which Fortinbras had won through combat."

"But why should this disturb King Hamlet's spirit?" asked Barnardo, confused.

"Well, now, sir," said Horatio, "young Fortinbras – the slain King's son – has resolved to take back the lands that his father lost. This, I take it, is the main reason why the Old King Hamlet has returned from the dead; he is agitated to think that the lands he won might be reclaimed."

Barnardo pondered this. "So you believe that this Ghost comes to warn?"

"Hush," said Horatio suddenly. "Behold, lo, it comes again!"

The Ghost had appeared silently but a few paces behind Barnardo, entering accompanied with the same blast of icy cold as before. The young soldier turned fearfully to face it.

"Stay, illusion," Horatio commanded of the apparition. "If you have a voice, speak to me! If you know the secret of your country's fate, speak to me...or," he added, as another thought occurred to him, "or did you hoard treasure in your life, that you obtained by foul means? For this reason, they say, spirits often walk in death – speak of it – stay, and speak!" The ghost's mouth opened – was he about to say something?

A harsh, ringing shriek cut suddenly through the air, and they all jumped. A cockerel was crowing, announcing the coming of day, and, like a started hare, the alarmed Ghost backed swiftly away, retreating to whence it came...it did not like the cock's crow.

"Stop it, Marcellus!" said Horatio frantically. "Do not let it leave!"

Marcellus seized his partisan – a long-handed spear. "Shall I strike it?" he cried, hastening forward.

"Do, if it will not stand!" Horatio ordered, as the Ghost drew ever further away. But then, a shimmer, and the Ghost was no longer there.

"'Tis here!" said Barnardo, pointing to where the fading figure could now be seen.

"No, 'tis here!" Horatio gestured; Marcellus ran from one spot to another, spear raised...but the ghost had escaped.

"'Tis gone," said Marcellus. He looked guiltily at his spear. "We did it wrong, offering it violence...it was too majestic to be treated so. Besides, it is invulnerable, like the air; our malicious blows are in vain."

Barnardo scratched his ear. "It was about to speak when the cock crowed," he said.

"And then it started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons," agreed Horatio. "I have heard that the cockerel's shrill cry awakes the god of day. At his warning, whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, any spirit that is beyond the bounds of death hastens back to its proper home."

Marcellus nodded. "It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that at Christmas-time this bird sings all night long, so that no spirit dare stir from its hellish home. And holy and gracious is that time, free of evil..."

"So I have heard and do in part believe it," said Horatio. "But look, the dawn arrives. Let us go from this place – and by my advice, tell what we have seen to Hamlet, son of the dead King. Upon my life, if not to us, this mute spirit will speak to _him_."

"Let's do it," said Marcellus decisively . "I know where to find him – come."

And so, as the morning cast its rosy blush over the dusty hills and fields, the three men made haste to find their friend and lord: young Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

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**Pleeeease review! It's my first Shakespeare fanfic!**


	2. Chapter 2

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**ACT ONE **

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**Chapter 1**: _To Be or Not To Be_

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The throne room was large, and white-marbled. King Claudius – he who had become ruler of Denmark after his brother Hamlet's death – was perched upon the gold-wrought throne. A small cluster of people stood about him. An unimposing, weasel-faced figure, he looked rather ridiculously minute in comparison to that majestic room, but all eyes were bent upon him respectfully. All eyes but those of a sullen-faced figure clothed all in black. This pale young man, dark-haired and with a fine sword at his side, stared stubbornly at the floor, tight-lipped.

The King raised his hand and addressed the small company surrounding him. "My dear brother Hamlet's memory is still green," he said, in a rough voice that matched his sharp, cold eyes. "And it was right that we grieved, right that our whole kingdom mourned for him. Yet our grief has competed with nature; we must with sorrow remember him, but not neglect ourselves."

A tall, slender woman standing to the right of King Claudius' throne nodded in agreement, her beautiful face composed.

Claudius continued, turning slightly towards the beautiful woman. "Therefore our once-sister, now our Queen, we have taken to wife!"

At this, the pale youth's face twisted in uncontrollable anguish; he turned away so that the other might not see. But tortured tears had sprung to his eyes.

"Remember," the King said to his councillors, who stood in a straggling group to one side of him, "that you approved this marriage; we have not forgotten that your advice has freely gone with this affair all along. For all of you, our thanks."

A tremor seemed to shake the youth's entire frame, but having desperately controlled himself, he turned resolutely back, eyes hard, and continued to stare fixedly at the floor.

"Now!" said the King, in a strong, carrying voice. "You all know how young Fortinbras, son of the late King of Norway, thinks our state to be disjointed and weak. He pesters us with messages that tell us to give up those lands lost by his father to my most valiant brother. So much for him," he added scornfully. "We have written to Norway, the uncle of young Fortinbras, who, feeble and bedridden, scarcely understands his nephew's purpose – written to tell him to suppress any further proceedings."

The king turned to two of his councillors. "You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand," he said to them, "I choose you to bear this message to old Norway; that his nephew shall have no further power to negotiate with me. Farewell, and make haste!"

Cornelius and Voltemand bowed, and the former spoke. "In that and all things we will show our duty."

"Heartily farewell," the King told them. When they had gone, the pale youth made a motion as if suddenly resolving to speak. Claudius' eyes flickered briefly in the youth's direction, and he quickly spoke before the younger had a chance.

"And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?" Claudius addressed a fiery-eyed young man with wild tawny hair and an aggressive demeanour. Looking angry at being deliberately prevented from speaking, the dark-haired youth shot Laertes a contemptuous look, raised his chin, and glared at him. He did not look away, and Laertes was noticeably unnerved.

"You told us of some request – what is it, Laertes?" asked the King, when Laertes hesitated, trying to avoid looking at the pale youth. "You cannot make a reasonable request to the Danish King, and lose your voice!" reprimanded the King. "What would you beg, Laertes, that shall be my offer, not your asking?" His voice had taken on a rather ingratiating tone. "What would you have, Laertes?" he repeated.

"My most respected lord," said Laertes. "I ask your leave and favour to return to France, from whence I came to Denmark to show my duty to you in your coronation. Yet now I must confess, that duty done, my thoughts and wishes bend once again towards France, that country which I love, and I ask your gracious leave and pardon..."

The king debated this, stroking his thin dark beard. "Have you your father's leave?" he asked, looking not at Laertes but at a portentous old man with a grey beard and a startling large red nose. "What say you, Polonius?"

Laertes' father spoke in a pompous-sounding voice. "He has, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave; at last upon his will I sealed my hard consent. I do beseech you give him leave to go."

The King nodded, satisfied. "I give you my leave, Laertes," he said. "Time is yours; go, and fare you well."

Laertes bowed, grateful, and retreated from the room. He seemed glad to escape the relentless hard stare of the pale youth, who had turned away upon Laertes' dismissal, a disinterested look upon his face.

"Now, my nephew Hamlet, and my son –"

At this, the pale youth looked up, his eyes full of contempt. "A little more than kin," he spat with hatred in every syllable. "And less than kind!"

"How is it that the clouds of woe still hang on you?" asked Claudius.

"Not so much, my lord, I am too much in the 'son'," Hamlet said, bitterly humorous.

The Queen, who had remained silent through everything so far, gave a little sigh at this, and moved towards her son. "Good Hamlet, cast your nighted colour off!" she exclaimed, gripping his hand passionately. "Do not for ever with lowered eyelids search for your noble father in the dust. You know that all lives must die –"

"Aye, Madam, it is common," said Hamlet aggressively, and the Queen gazed at him, bewildered.

"If it be common, why seems it so much worse with you?" she asked him.

"Seems?" repeated Hamlet, fierce. "Nay, not 'seems'! 'Tis not just my dark cloak, nor suits of solemn black! Nor sighs and forced breath, nor teary eyes, nor the misery in my face. These indeed 'seem', for they are _actions_, that a man might play – but I have deep grief within that shows these to be merely the appearances, the suits of woe. Should I remove my 'nighted colour', the darkness of sorrow would still writhe within."

Queen Gertrude shook her head sorrowfully, as though she had not really understood, and Claudius spoke up, in a fatherly tone.

"'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet," he said, "to give these mourning duties to your father. But remember, your father lost his father, and that father lost, lost his! The survivor is bound to show sorrow for a while, but to persevere in such obstinate grieving as you, why, 'tis unmanly grief."

Hamlet did not reply, by contempt was etched harshly in every line of his taut face.

"It is a fault against the dead!" declared Claudius. "A fault to nature, whose common theme is death of fathers. Throw aside this practice of woe, dear Hamlet, and think of me as a father. You are the heir to the throne, and no less love than that which a father bears his son, do I have for you. Your intent to go back to school in Wittenberg is most against our wishes; we beseech you to remain here, our chiefest courtier, kinsman, and our son."

There was a slightly embarrassing pause as the King waited for a reply, which did not seem forthcoming. Prince Hamlet merely gazed coolly at his uncle, and held his silence.

The anxious Gertrude hastily intervened, before her son could show too much rudeness in refusing to answer a king.

"I pray thee stay with us, Hamlet," she said in trembling tones. "Go not to Wittenberg!"

A pause, then Hamlet bowed his head shortly and with little grace. "I shall in all my best obey you, Madam," he said tonelessly, but with a very slight emphasis on 'you' that made Claudius' eyes narrow in annoyance. But the King soon covered up his offence with a show of joy.

"'Tis a loving a fair reply," he exclaimed. "Madame, come –" he added to his Queen, taking her arm. "This gentle, unforced agreement of Hamlet's makes my heart smile. I am most impressed! Let us go and drink a toast; come away!"

Hamlet, straight-backed and proud, watched them through the door. But once they were out of his sight, and he from theirs, he let his bravado drop away. Slumping wearily into the King's throne, he ran his fingers through his hair in agonised helplessness, then stared rather wildly at his own hands.

"Oh," he murmured, pressing his fingers deeply into the firm muscles of this arm, seemingly amazed to find it so strong, so unyielding. "Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt," he whispered, anguished and trembling. "Thaw and dissolve itself into a dew...or that the Everlasting God had not forbidden any self-slaughter..." His fingers had found the hilt of the sword at his hip, and clasped it tightly. But Hamlet did not draw it from its sheath. "Oh, God..." he sighed. "God, how stale and flat seem to me all the uses of this world. That it should come thus: my father but two months dead – nay, not so much, not two! – so excellent a king, that was to _this –" _he struggled for a word to describe his uncle, and could not find one foul enough.

"My father..." Hamlet whispered, sliding off the throne and pacing the floor in restless agitation. "So loving to my mother that he wouldn't let the wind blow on her face too roughly. Heaven and earth, must I remember? Within a month! A little _month_. Oh, she followed my father's body at the funeral, all tears, but, why, she – oh, God! A beast without faculty of reasoning would have mourned longer than she!" Overcome, his voice broke, and Hamlet stopped his pacing only to lean his head against the wall, biting his lip. When he spoke again, it was with quiet bitterness.

"Married with my uncle," he said softly. "My father's brother..." He spoke the words as though he could not believe they could be true. "Yet he is no more like my father than I am like Hercules! Within a month," he repeated, "before the false tears had left her eyes, she married. Oh, most wicked speed! To go with such swiftness to, to –" Hamlet struggled, then choked out; "to incestuous sheets!" His eyes were wild.

"It is not, nor cannot come to any good," he ground out through clenched teeth. But he was only a Prince; and a Prince cannot say such things to a king. So when he next spoke it was with helpless resignation. "But break, my heart," he said quietly. "For I must hold my tongue."

---

When Horatio, Marcellus and Barnardo entered a little while later, having searched his bedchambers in vain, it was to find Hamlet standing stock-still by the window. He gazed out silently toward the royal graveyard where his father lay in the cold earth.

Horatio looked at his oldest friend with troubled eyes. It pained him to see Hamlet in such constant distress. He motioned for Marcellus and Barnardo to remain where they were for a little while, and walked quickly across the throne-room to his friend.

"Hail to your lordship," he said softly, as he approached. Upon hearing Horatio's voice, Hamlet turned quickly.

"Horatio! I am glad to see you well," said the Prince with genuine pleasure.

Horatio bowed. "The same, my lord, and I am your poor servant ever."

"Sir, my good friend, I'll change that name with you," said Hamlet sincerely. "And what makes you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus!"

The two guards had joined them.

"My good lord," said Marcellus, and Hamlet clapped him on the shoulder. "I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir," he added to Barnardo. Then he turned back to his oldest friend. "But what in faith make you from Wittenberg?"

"A truant disposition, good my lord," said Horatio almost apologetically, and Hamlet frowned.

"I would not hear your enemy say so," he said reproachfully. "Say not such things about yourself; I know you are no truant. But what is your affair here?"

"My lord, I came to see your father's funeral."

Hamlet's eyes hardened. "I pray you do not mock me, fellow student. I think it was to see me mother's wedding."

Horatio had not meant in any way to mock his lord, and shook his head. "Indeed, my lord, the wedding followed fast upon..."

"Horatio, the funeral baked meats were still fresh enough to be served cold on the wedding tables," Hamlet said bitterly. "I would rather have had died before I had ever seen that day, Horatio."

Horatio looked at his friend, disturbed; he remembered the carefree, joyous boy-Hamlet whom he had grown up with – such a bitter change!

"My father," Hamlet was saying. "Methinks I see my father."

Alarmed, Horatio, Barnardo and Marcellus all glanced round the throne-room, the memory of the ghost still fresh in their minds. But apart from them, the room was empty.

"Where, my lord?" asked Horatio, wondering if this was some new trick of the Ghost's; to appear only to the Prince and not to them. But Hamlet sighed.

"In my mind's eye, Horatio."

His friend looked upon him with sympathetic eyes. "I saw him once – he was a godly king."

"He was a man, a true man," said Hamlet, eyes dark and brow furrowed. "I shall not look upon his like again."

"My lord," said Horatio hesitantly, "I – I think I saw him yesternight."

Hamlet looked at his friend blankly. "Saw, who?" he said, not understanding.

"My lord, the King your father."

"The King my father?" Hamlet repeated, puzzlement and something not unlike hurt in his eyes; Horatio realised that the Prince thought he was teasing him.

"Restrain your disbelief for a while," he said hastily. "Listen while I tell you of this marvel – witnessed by myself and these two gentlemen here."

Hamlet looked at Marcellus and Barnardo for signs that Horatio was not serious; then, seeing they showed none, he burst out, "For God's love, let me hear!"

Horatio wasted no time. "Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Barnardo, on their watch, in the dead waste and middle of the night, encountered a figure like your father; armed from head to foot. He appeared before them and marched solemnly by then – three times he walked before their surprised eyes, so close...they, fearful, spoke not to him."

Hamlet urged Horatio on with eager nods, his eyes still searching his friend's face for any sign of showing that this was a joke. But Horatio continued, deadly serious: "They told me of this, in secrecy, and on the third night I kept watch with them."

"And?" whispered Hamlet, hanging onto Horatio's every word.

"And then the apparition came, as they had said. I knew your father, my lord; my hands are not more like each other than that spirit to the King!"

"But where was this?" Hamlet's eyes burned in their intensity.

Marcellus spoke up. "My lord, upon the platform where we watch."

"Did you not speak to it?"

"My lord, I did," said Horatio quickly. "But answer it made none. Yet once methought it was about to speak, but then the morning cock crowed; at the sound it shrunk away in haste, and vanished from our sight."

"'Tis very strange," said the Prince, in wonderment.

"As I do live, my honoured lord, 'tis true, and we did think it our duty to let you know of it." Horatio watched his lord anxiously.

"Indeed, sirs!" said Hamlet, "but this troubles me. Hold you the watch tonight?"

Horatio looked at Marcellus and Barnardo questioningly – they were the official watchmen, not he – and they nodded. "We do, my lord."

Hamlet's mind was already back on his father's appearance. "He was armed, you say?"

"Yes, my lord."

"From top to toe?"

"My lord, yes, from head to foot."

Hamlet pondered this. "Then you did not see his face?"

Horatio nodded. "Oh yes, my lord, he wore his visor up."

"How did he look – frowningly?"

Horatio did not like to tell his friend of the anguished expression the old King's ghost wore, but he had no choice. Carefully, he said, "A countenance more in sorrow than in anger." Sorrowful, aye – terrible, pained, agonised sorrow!

"Pale, or red?" Hamlet asked his friend.

"Nay, very pale," said Horatio, thinking of the Ghost's colourless form.

"And – and he fixed his eyes upon you?"

Horatio nodded. "Most constantly."

Hamlet gave a profound sigh. "I wish that I had been there!"

"It would have amazed you," said Horatio.

"Perhaps, yes, very like," said Hamlet distractedly. "Did it stay long?"

It had seemed like an age, Horatio recalled; but he knew it had not been very long in truth.

"While one with moderate haste might count a hundred," he told Hamlet.

"His beard was grizzled, no?" asked Hamlet, still seeking assurance. Horatio gave it most readily to him.

"Yes, it was as I had seen it in his life; dark, with silver-grey streaks."

Hamlet seemed to make up his mind. "I will watch tonight!" he declared decisively. "Perhaps this ghost will walk again."

"I guarantee it will," Horatio said, but Hamlet barely heard him.

"If this spirit, whatever it be, should assume the form of my father, I'll speak to it," he said feverishly. "And," he added suddenly, "you have kept this secret so far – hold the secret still! Whatever shall happen tonight, speak not of it. So, fare you well – upon the platform 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you."

"Our duty to your honour," said Marcellus and Barnardo, and Horatio inclined his head.

"Farewell," said Hamlet, as the three men left the room.

Alone again, Hamlet stood in by the empty throne and pondered that which he had heard. His mind was troubled, but the wildness feverishness of earlier had left him.

"My father's spirit, in arms!" he murmured, wondering. "All is not well; I suspect some foul play." Hamlet knew that spirits rarely walk unless some trouble haunts them. "If only the night would come!" he cried. "Till then I can do nothing...but there must be some wrongdoing, yes – and though all earth might try to hide foul deeds from men's eyes, they will always rise to light; tonight...tonight, I will learn the _truth_."

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**Please review!!!!!!!**


	3. Chapter 3

**ACT ONE**

**Chapter 3: **_Ophelia's Instructions_

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"My luggage is on board ship, Ophelia; I come to say farewell." The slim, softly pretty girl in a simple white dress looked up from her bed where she sat quietly sewing. Her tawny-haired elder brother stood in the doorway. She looked disappointed to hear Laertes' news, but not much surprised. She said nothing, but beckoned him in. Laertes sat down beside her on her bed.

"Sweet sister," he said in brotherly tones, "while means of communication are still available to us, do not sleep without letting me hear from you."

Ophelia laughed. "Do you doubt that?" she said, amused, but Laertes paid no attention. He had come to tell her something in particular, and meant to get it over with.

"Sister – as regarding Hamlet," he began, and Ophelia sighed, sensing a lecture. "Hamlet and the trifling of his favour," Laertes continued, "think of it as but a passing fancy, Ophelia – a violet in the youth of nature in its prime."

Ophelia, affronted, opened her mouth to speak – but Laertes ploughed resolutely on.

"His so-called love for you is premature, short-lived, sister; sweet but not lasting," he declared. "No more."

"No more?" repeated Ophelia, a spot of colour appearing in each pale cheek. "No more than that?"

"Well, think it no more," Laertes told her. "Perhaps he loves you now, but you must remember that his will is not his own; consider his high position. He cannot choose for himself his own path – as more lowly people do – for on his choice hangs the safety and health of the whole state of Denmark! If he says he loves you, you would be wise only to believe it so far; imagine what loss of honour you will have if you listen to his songs with a too-believing ear, or lose your treasured chastity to him! Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister. The caterpillar too often destroys the buds of spring before they open; be wary, then. Best safety lies in fear!"

Ophelia sighed. "I shall the effect of this good lesson keep," she told her brother, trying to hide her annoyance. "But, my brother, do _not_ tell me to choose the steep and thorny way to heaven whilst, a puffed and reckless libertine, yourself the primrose path of dalliance tread, and do not practise what you preach!"

Laertes, already bored of listening, got up. "Oh, don't worry yourself about me," he said impatiently. "I've stayed too long," he added, as she began to speak again. "I must go – but wait, here my father comes."

The grey-bearded Polonius had just entered the room.

"Still here, Laertes?" he cried, "Aboard, aboard for shame! The boat is waiting for you. There, my blessing with thee. But first, remember these words of advice I must import to you!"

Laertes smothered a groan; his father's advice was always long-winded, and terribly boring. This lecture was no different.

"Give thy thoughts no tongue," Polonius began, and Laertes hoisted a look of attentiveness onto his face. "Nor act out any thought you have not properly developed or controlled; be familiar, but by _no means_ vulgar; keep close to you those friends whose loyalty you have proved, but do not shake hands with every seeming-gallant fellow you meet – it would dull your palm!"

Laertes nodded in thanks, and turned hopefully towards the door, but his father had not yet finished. Clearing his throat, Polonius continued. "Beware of entering into a quarrel!" he warned his son. "But, once you are in one, manage it that your opponent will be wary of you; give every man you ear but not your voice; take each man's censure but reserve they judgement –"

Ophelia tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn; luckily, her father did not notice, but Laertes did. She turned away and giggled silently as her brother attempted to both glare at her and keep up his pretence of alertness.

Their father rambled on. "Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy!" he told Laertes, who nodded. "But not expressed in fancy – rich, not gaudy; for a man's true nature is often shown by his clothes. Neither a borrower or a lender be, my boy, for loan often loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulleth the edge of good husbandry. This above all," he announced, caught up in the excitement of his cleverness, "to thine own self be true!" He paused importantly, waiting for the weight of his wisdom to sink in. "And it must follow as the night follows the day," he went on, "thou cannot be false to _any_ man. Farewell, my blessing season my advice to you."

For a moment or two, Laertes did not respond; he had long since stopped listening, and had not realised his father was dismissing him. Upon catching Ophelia's warning eye, however, and noting the sudden silence, Laertes jumped back to attention. "Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord," he said quickly, covering up his confusion.

Polonius harrumphed a little, guessing that the full weight of his most wise lecture had not been taken in, but said, kindly enough, "You are late – go, you servants are ready for you."

"Farewell, Ophelia," said Laertes, as he walked to the door. "And remember well what I said to you!"

Ophelia nodded, not noticing her father's sharp glance. "'Tis in my memory locked," she said, "And you shall keep the key of it."

Laertes seemed satisfied. "Farewell," he said again, and with a raised hand from his sister and a nod from his father, the tawny-haired youth was gone.

As soon as Laertes' footsteps, echoing down the corridor, could no longer be heard, Polonius turned to his daughter.

"What is it, Ophelia, he has said to you?" he asked.

Ophelia fidgeted; she had just promised Laertes that she would keep it secret, after all. But under the commanding eye of her father, she meekly yielded.

"So please you, something about the Lord Hamlet," she said.

Polonius raised his eyebrows. "Marry, well thought of," he said. "I've been told the he has, of late, given much private time to you – and you yourself have of your attention been most free and generous!"

It was with difficulty that Ophelia restrained herself from raising her eyes to heaven – did no one think she and the lord Hamlet should love each other?

"If this be so," continued Polonius, "I must tell you that you don't appreciate your position clearly, as is appropriate for my daughter and her honour. What is between you? Give me up the truth."

The poor girl struggled; but said reluctantly, "He has, my lord, recently made many tenders of his affection to me."

"Affection? Pooh!" scorned her father. "You speak like a green girl. Do you believe his 'tenders', as you call them?" His tone was patronising, and slightly mocking; the colour rose higher in Ophelia's cheeks.

"I do not know, my lord, what I should think," Ophelia told him, gathering up her spirit. She was about to go on to say how her natural inclination to what was right was being besieged by both Laertes and Polonius himself, but before she could say more, Polonius went on:

"Marry, I will teach you!" he said, evidently pleased to have found a subject needful of his advice. "Think yourself naïve to have taken these 'tenders' for true love – they are not real. From now on, take better care of yourself, or you'll end up making a fool of me."

Ophelia broke in passionately, her eyes beginning to shine with tears. She loved Hamlet, and he loved her – she had been so sure of this – could no one else see it? "My lord," she said to her father, who looked surprised to see her so excited, for Ophelia was generally a very placid girl. "He has persistently given me love, in an honourable fashion!"

But Polonius only looked sceptical, blind to her imploring eyes. "Ay, 'fashion', you may call it," he said, with annoying superiority. "Go on, go on!"

"He has has given credit to his speech, my lord, with almost all the holy vows of heaven!"

"Aye, traps to catch birds," Polonius said dismissively, not noticing how at this Ophelia's colour faded and her hands trembled. "I do know how, when, er –" Moving into embarrassing waters, Polonius looked a little uncomfortable, but soon found a way to say it. "When the blood burns," he said triumphantly, "when the blood burns, the soul is generous in letting the tongue make insincere promises."

Ophelia passed a shaking hand over her eyes, and said nothing.

"From this time forth," declared Polonius, "be less sparing with your pure maiden presence. Ophelia, do not believe Lord Hamlet's vows. This is once and for all; I will _not,_ from this time forth, have you use any moment of leisure talking with the Lord Hamlet. Look to it, I charge you," he said, the iron notes of his command falling heavily upon the stricken Ophelia's ears. Then he waited for her answer; cowed and miserable, Ophelia twisted her hands in her lap, and hoped her father would go. But it was no good – he wanted her to promise.

Finally the pale girl whispered helplessly, "I shall obey, my lord." She had to say it – though, at that moment, her thoughts were too torn apart for her to know whether she meant what she said.

But Polonius was satisfied. With fatherly consolation, he patted her on the arm, then got up to leave the room. The beautiful Ophelia, white and trembling, followed.

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**Review? Pretty please with Polonius on top?**


	4. Chapter 4

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ACT ONE

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**Scene 4: **_Hamlet follows the Ghost_

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The four men shivered.

"It is very cold," said Hamlet, drawing his cloak more tightly about him.

"The air is sharp and nipping," agreed Horatio, who had accidentally left his cloak behind and now regretted it. He settled for blowing softly on his hands.

"What hour is it?" Hamlet asked.

"I think it's nearly twelve," said Horatio.

"No," Marcellus said. "It has already struck."

Horatio nodded slowly, glancing up at his lord. "Then it draws nears the time when the spirit customarily walks..."

A sudden, unexpected flourish of trumpets made them all jump, and Horatio looked to the castle in alarm. "What does this mean, my lord?" he asked Hamlet, who merely scowled.

"The King does stay up late tonight," he said. "He will drink deeply, become disorderly, sing and hold wild dances...as he drains his goblets of Rhenish wine, the drums and trumpets bray out his triumph."

Horatio looked confused; no such goings-on had there been in the court of Denmark when the old King Hamlet had lived. "Is it a custom?" he asked curiously.

"Ay," admitted Hamlet, "but to my mind it is such a custom that is more honourable to break than to keep...this drunken revelling east and west lowers our worth in the eyes of other nations. They call us drunkards, pigs! And it does indeed soil our reputation, detracts from our achievements, though outstanding might those achievements be."

His friends nodded sympathetically, but Hamlet was in full flow, and continued, fiery-eyed.

"So often it happens that in certain men that they have some vicious mole of nature within them, that they cannot help, but which breaks down their reason...carrying the stamp of but one small defect – no matter how pure their virtues might else be – they shall, from that particular fault, become infected, be brought into disrepute..."

"My lord!" interrupted Horatio softly. "Look, it comes –"

As the icy cold froze the hairs on their arms, the Ghost's grey eyes bore into those of his son. Hamlet fell back against the wall. Staring in pained amazement upon the face of his dead father, the young prince murmured, "Angels and ministers of grace defend us!"

The Ghost said nothing, keeping its sorrowful eyes fixed upon Hamlet's face.

Trembling, the prince spoke again, his voice tortured. "Whether you are a spirit of good or a damned goblin – whether you bring with you the airs of heaven or blasts of wind from hell – whether your intents are wicked or charitable – I will speak to thee!"

Horatio was no longer looking at the ghost, but at his shaking friend; Hamlet's face was deathly white. The young prince wrung his hands, eyes tortured.

"I'll call thee Hamlet!" cried the Prince wildly. "King – father – royal Dane! O, speak to me! Tell me why thy blessed bones enclosed in death have burst their shroud – what may this mean?"

But the Ghost did not speak.

"Thou, dead corpse," Hamlet whispered, "making nights hideous, say, why is this? Wherefore? What should we do?"

The Ghost said nothing, but raised one smoky hand, and crooked a finger. His eyes never left Hamlet's face.

"It beckons you to go with it," said Horatio, in sudden fear. He resolved that he would not let Hamlet go alone, if so he wished – who knew with what malicious intent the Ghost beckoned him?

"It waves you to a more removed ground," said Marcellus anxiously. "But do not go with it..." Horatio knew that Marcellus was thinking along the same lines as he.

"No, be no means!" Horatio put in, as Hamlet, like in a dream, moved slowly forward.

"It will not speak," said Hamlet calmly. "So I shall follow it."

"Do not, my lord," beseeched Horatio; he was gripped by a consuming terror that his friend would not return.

"What, what should be the fear?" Hamlet asked Horatio without looking at him. "I do not value my life – not even at the worth of a pin!"

At this, Horatio looked anguished. His oldest friend, so dismissive of his own life! Where had the Hamlet he had once known gone? The playful Hamlet of vigorous life and smiles, who wanted not only to live, but to live well, and fully? This new Hamlet, of the smouldering eyes and thin pale face; Horatio did not know what to make of him.

"As for my soul," Hamlet went on, taking a few more steps towards the Ghost, who drew further away, still beckoning, "What can it do to my soul? It is immortal itself. It waves me forth again – I'll follow it!"

Horatio laid a restraining hand upon his lord's arm. "What if it tempt you toward the sea, my lord," he warned, "or – or to the dreadful summit of a cliff? And there assume some other horrible form which might draw you into madness? Think of it!" he said pleadingly, as Hamlet shook off Horatio's hand, looking impatient. "The very place puts desperation into every brain that looks so many fathoms to the sea and hears it roar beneath!"

But Hamlet would not listen. "It waves me still. Go on," he said to the Ghost. "I'll follow thee!"

He started resolutely forward, but in one swift movement Horatio and Marcellus both seized his arms and held him tight.

"You shall not go, my lord!" said Marcellus, looking at Horatio desperately; he had more influence over the Prince.

"Hold off your hands!" cried Hamlet, struggling to free himself from their grasp.

"Be ruled, you shall not go," Horatio told his friend, panting with the effort of holding him back.

Hamlet stopped struggling and glared at them. "My fate cries out," he hissed, "and makes each petty artery in this body as strong as a lion! I am _called_ – unhand me, gentleman – by heaven, I say, away!" He wrenched himself free from their grasp, and stood there, fierce, eyes burning.

"Go on," he said again to the Ghost, who had watched the proceedings silently. "Go on, I'll follow thee."

And before Horatio or any of them could say another word, he had gathered his cloak about him and disappeared into the darkness.

Horatio ran his fingers in agitation through his dark locks. "He waxes desperate with imagination," he whispered.

"Let's follow," said Marcellus. "It is not fit thus to obey him."

Horatio nodded quickly. "Let us go after him. Oh, what outcome will this reach?"

"Something is rotten in the state of Denmark," lamented Marcellus, as they started swiftly in the direction Hamlet and the Ghost had taken.

"Stay, Barnardo, and keep good watch," said Horatio ov his shoulder to the young guard, Barnardo -- who nodded, only too grateful to keep away from the Ghost's new haunt.

"Let's follow him," said Marcellus again, and the two men, too, were swallowed up by the inky darkness around the battlements.

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**Please review!**

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